


in defiance of gravity

by scarletite



Series: the observation of binary stars [2]
Category: Carmilla (Web Series), Carmilla - All Media Types
Genre: AU, F/F, and the as-yet-unreleased prequel i'm thinking of, follows on from prior fic, if you want to understand what's going on, you should probably read hold my hand lead me home first
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-20 22:40:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11344554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletite/pseuds/scarletite
Summary: A series of oneshots and side-stories fromthe observation of binary starsuniverse, posted in non-chronological order.[chapter two: the one in which carmilla's forced to attend a party with her not-friends, lafontaine dabbles with some very worrying forms of alcohol ingestion, and laura fields questions.]





	1. blood debts and morning afters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the morning after the proposal, feat. sappiness, some confessions, and talk of the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter picks up after the very end of _hold my hand, lead me home_ chapter 5, where Carmilla proposed.

You wake to the most breathtaking sight.

An entire month's worth of globetrotting, new destinations and amazing sights, and you've never wanted to be anywhere but here; with Laura sleeping next to you, her hair messy and her mouth half-open, and the early-morning sun glinting off her new ring.

You could live in this moment forever.

Laura whines softly when your fingertips touch her, threading through her perpetual bedhead. She doesn't wake though, not immediately. So, you allow yourself a little freedom, a little daring. You run your fingers slowly down her cheek, her neck, her arm—until her hand slips into yours, all smooth and soft, until you hit the warm band around her finger.

It looks perfect, right—a thin gold band, with a modest, heart-shaped diamond.

You'd had the thought, briefly, to spoil her with something large, exorbitantly expensive. To give her your mother's ring, the one that had been passed through your family; the one worth more than anything you've ever held. But that just isn't Laura; she's simple, delicate, understated. She'd have hated it, even if she'd never say it.

Instead, you'd made a choice—something old, something new; a new legacy, for a new family, for a new beginning.

In the light of early morning, you consider the jewel, cut and polished and reset. Free of the gaudy band and the half-dozen other diamonds, it's more stunning that you remember, even though it's been halved and reshaped, its twin set aside for the future, the wedding.

(Although, perhaps it's just awe for who's wearing it.)

(Laura's your fiancee, your future wife, your forever.)

(Nothing could be more stunning than that.)

"Mm," Laura sighs, brow creasing.

You bite back a laugh, fight against the swell of love you feel for her—not just your girlfriend anymore, but your fiancee. "Shh," your free hand comes up, smooths away the wrinkle in her brow.

Laura shifts closer to you, until her nose is pressing into your collarbone. Her hand pulls away from your grip, shifting over your waist instead. Her eyes don't open. You're not sure she's even awake, for a moment. But then her arm tightens around you, and she lets out a soft huff into your neck.

"Morning, buttercup."

"Good morning," Laura murmurs into your shoulder, voice still rough with sleep, and her breath is warm against your neck but her nose cold. "What're you doing?"

Your fingers gently trail up and down her side, thumbing from shoulder to hip and back again. "Admiring the view," you say, but there's nothing sexual about it, just pure appreciation, affection—because you don't think you'll ever get sick of waking up next to Laura.

Laura blinks slowly at you, then at the canopy of the makeshift tent above you, the warm sunlight filtering through the sheets. The smile that spreads across her face is slow, shy, but happy. "Did…last night really happen?"

You reach out, taking her hand, thumbing pointedly over the ring. "Afraid so," you confirm, voice soft. "Why, change your mind on me?"

Her fingers twist through yours, palm warm. "Never," she breathes, earnest, looking at you like you hold all the promises and answers in the world, like she's never seen anything more awe-inspiring. "This has been the best month of my entire life. We saw so much, and did so many things. But…last night was perfect. And Carm, we're—we're engaged. We're going to get married. Oh my god, we're getting married. How do we tell people? Are we telling people? We don't have time to plan the wedding, we—"

You shake your head. "Breathe, cupcake," you poke her side, a disgustingly fond smile on your face. "Let's try to make it twenty-four hours before you work yourself into a panic attack, okay? It's too soon to worry about all of that. Let's just lay back," you wrap your arms around Laura's shoulders, drag her sideways, until she's half slumped across your chest, legs tangled with yours, "and enjoy this."

"Okay," Laura murmurs, lips finding yours in a soft, chaste kiss. "I can do that, I think."

"Besides, I expect Mattie's probably already planned the whole thing," you say, and it's only half joking. "Right down to the guest list, and how we'll wear our hair."

Laura laughs. "Your sister scares me sometimes."

"Mattie scares everyone," you laugh, because it's true. "But it keeps things interesting."

Your fiancee burrows into your side, her face burying back into your shoulder. "It's still a no on the doves," she mumbles, and the laugh that bursts from you is sudden, explosive.

Your arms wrap around Laura's back. "I didn't know you remembered," you say, voice low—and it's not about Mattie, or doves, or anything, it's about the words you'd said to Laura that night, over the phone; all the promises you'd made, that neither of you have ever spoken about.

"I didn't, for a while," she says, low, almost fragile. "But…when I did, you never brought it up. I thought that maybe you didn't mean it, that you were just saying those things because of what happened. Because you thought maybe I would…"

"I meant every word," you say, hand sliding to her cheek, tilting her face up so she can look you in the eye, see the serious, earnest expression on your face. "I would have married you then and there, if I could have. I love you, Laura. I always will. And that day, almost losing you…it made me realize just how much I need you."

"Why didn't you say anything?" Laura questions. "All that time in the hospital, and what Mattie said…"

Your eyes slide away for a moment, thinking. "I was scared," you admit. "I thought you didn't remember, at first, and then after…you never brought it up either. I thought that maybe you'd changed your mind. I'd already almost lost you. I couldn't take it if you'd said no."

"We're idiots," Laura laughs, thick, surging forward to kiss you. "We're big, dumb, scaredy-cats. God, like I'd ever turn you down, I love you. I couldn't imagine living without you. I mean, the apartment would be cleaner, and maybe I'd actually be able to get work done, but—I'd miss you too much. You're my everything, Carm."

"Flatterer," you retort, just to hide the warm flutter in your chest. You kiss her again, almost desperately. "I think we're doomed to be lovesick, terrified fools, sweetheart."

"Well, we can be lovesick, terrified fools together," Laura says, reaching back to take your hand in hers, the circle of her ring distinct against your fingers. "We have forever, after all."

"Forever," you echo, kissing her knuckles. "Sounds like a grand idea."

Laura hums, squeezing your fingers tight within hers. "For what it's worth, I wouldn't take any of this back. I love you, and I love this," Laura waved an arm vaguely, at the tent and the burned out candles, "and I love that you went to all of this effort for me, even if I don't know how you did it."

"I may have struck a blood debt with Mattie."

"Oh, sounds ominous. Care to share?"

"And ruin the air of mystery?" you smirk.

Laura squints at you. "Well, I think your _fiancee_ deserves to know whether or not you sold the soul of our first born to your big sister. It's usually polite to disclose any blood debts or oaths before marrying a girl, you know."

" _Carm."_

"I may have promised her a very rare, very expensive bottle of brandy from Mother's collection."

It was hidden in the back of the wine cooler, a Cheval Blanc 1947, worth five figures. You'd never found occasion to open it, once you'd discovered it. But once she'd discovered you'd had it, and the other bottles in Mother's in-house collection, and Mattie (connoisseur that she is) has been lusting after it for years.

The suspicion in Laura's eyes doesn't abate, if anything, it increases.

She looks at you like you're one of her investigations, like you're a mystery she's _"this close to solving, Carm, I just need the final pieces."_ It's her journalist face, the intrepid, irritatingly persistent one.

"And?" she prompts.

You hiss a slow, short breath through your teeth.

Unfortunately, Laura's always been good at picking at the things you don't want her to, working holes in your defenses and slipping close. It's one of the traits you love to hate, the very same thing that repelled and attracted you to her.

" _And_ ," you reply, slowly, reluctantly, "I may have agreed to help her with some of her work."

Laura's eyes grow wide, and she slides into straddling you, arms planted on your shoulders. "You're going to work with Mattie?" she questions, and she's looking at you with something strange in her eyes, something you can't decipher. "But, I thought you didn't want anything to do with your mother's company."

"I don't."

"Then why did you—"

"I can't be a bartender forever, sweetheart."

It's something you've been thinking about for a while, since the idea of marrying Laura, and all that entails, had consumed your thoughts.

For three years now, you've been contending with your schedule: late nights at work, late-afternoon awakenings. Your relationship consists of stolen lunches and dinners, before you slip out the door to work. You're tired of waking up alone, of sneaking into bed long after Laura's asleep. You want mornings and evenings with her, to wake and sleep and spend time with her that you've been deprived of.

And the holiday, that'd only opened your eyes to it, to just what you've been missing—all the sleepy mornings, the taste of pancakes on Laura's lips; the quiet evenings, falling into bed together, all languid kisses, with bad soap operas on in the background.

You've had a taste, and now you're hooked.

"I've got a stake in the company, for all I don't want it," Mother had never formally disowned you, despite the threats, and what you'd thought she'd do after you ran away; you'd been happy before, to live in her apartment, to spend her money, but to keep yourself distant from the business that haunted your childhood. "And I've got the…training. I'd be a fool not to use it."

"I don't want you to be unhappy, Carm," Laura says, cupping your face, eyes shaded. "Don't give up your job, your happiness, for me. I don't want you to change for me."

"It's not for you. It's for us."

"But Carm, you…" she looks at you, expression faltering, at the determined edge in your eyes. "Are you sure? After everything, after what you did to get away—"

Your hands find her sides, settling lightly on her bare skin. "To get away from my mother," you reply, shaking your head—it had taken some time for you to come to terms with it yourself. "Mattie's different, she's put mother's methods behind her. The company's going in a different direction, Laura. Strictly legal, ethical practices, she promises."

She nods slowly along, you know she's been keeping an eye on the company. "Mattie's doing a good job."

You smile up at her, hiding the apprehension in your eyes, the pit in your chest. "And she won't make me do anything I don't want to do. No conditions, I can walk away whenever I want," Mattie had made you many promises, agreements, eager to have you on board. "I'd be based in the offices here, in Styria. There'd be trips to the head office, and to other branches, of course…but I'd be here. We could do the little things, have breakfast, lunch, evenings together—we could have lazy weekends, and trips, and whatever else you want."

Laura doesn't push, doesn't pry, doesn't question. She just looks into your eyes. "Are you sure?"

"I've already agreed," you retort. "I put in my notice at the bar. I start next month."

"That's not what I asked. I want to know if you're sure?" Laura presses. "This is a big decision, Carm. And you can downplay it all you want, but it…I just want you to be happy, and if this makes you unhappy, there are other things. We can find you a job somewhere else, somewhere with normal hours, where you don't have to work at your mother's business, and—"

You lean up, interrupt Laura with a kiss. "You make me happy."

Laura sighs softly against your lips, sinks into you. "I just don't want you to regret it."

"I don't regret a thing," you say, pulling away to look at her, eyes earnest. "I'd walk into hell for you, Laura, if that's what it took."

She shakes her head at you, thumbing your cheek. "I won't tell you not to, I'm self-aware enough to know I have no right to dictate what work you should do. But you shouldn't do it for me, or us, or anybody but yourself. If it's what you want, I won't stop you. But you need to think about you."

"I'm going to do it, for me _and_ you," the words are firm, decisive. But then you soften a little, looking away from the intensity of Laura's gaze. "Besides, I think it might help. To be there, to see what it's like, without my mother."

Lilita Morgan had spent so long 'training' you to take her position, raising you in backrooms and board rooms. You'd seen the extent of her cruelty both on-the-record and off of it, and you'd been terrified of her, of her company, of the extent of the corruption you'd seen (partaken) in.

When you'd run, you'd determined that you'd never set foot back in Morgan Enterprises halls ever again. And, to this day, you never had. Even after your mother's imprisonment, you'd refused your rights to the company, passing the job over to Mattie instead. You'd never wanted to go back.

But like everything, Laura came along and changed your life. Made you want to change.

You'd meant what you said—you'd walk back into that hell for her. But it's not so much about that now, as it is about the promises you've made her, yourself, the future you want to claim. You want to treat her to all the things she deserves, and you want to love her, and you think that maybe this is the right step forward.

"I need to do this," you say, surer than anything you've ever been in your life. "I want to do this."

"Okay," Laura's weight is warm and solid over you, as she leans down, presses her lips to yours in a long, lingering kiss. "Then I'm behind you, one hundred and ten percent."

You pull Laura down again, tangling your fingers in her hair. "I prefer you beneath me."

Laura rolls her eyes, but you feel her laugh against your lips. Her hands slip slowly, innocently, down your sides, and she tilts her head. "I don't know, I kind of like the view from up here."


	2. the announcement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the one in which carmilla's forced to attend a party with her not-friends, lafontaine dabbles with some very worrying forms of alcohol ingestion, and laura fields questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set after the previous oneshot, following the proposal.

A few nights back from your trip, and fate finds you standing in the cold outside of Perry and LaFontaine’s door, a box of beer in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.

You’ve never actually been to Perry and LaFontaine’s. Most of the gatherings (much to your displeasure) seem to be held at your apartment, or at the Independent’s offices, or in the café down the street. It’s much more convenient, or so they claim. Laura’s been to their house a million times, but you’ve always turned down the offer, claiming that you had ‘work’ or that you’d ‘rather the sweet embrace of the void’.

Unlike yours and Laura’s apartment, the ginger twins live in a nice, quiet little house in the outskirts of the city. It’s the perfect suburban cliché, right down to the flower planters and the porch swing. Between that, the white picket fence, and the carefully manicured gardens, it looks like the cover-shot of a home and gardening magazine.

“It’s…quaint,” you drawl, absently nudging a frog statue with your boot.

Laura glances at you, lip curled in that warning way—the way you usually ignore. “I think it’s cute,” she retorts, narrowing her eyes at you. “Be nice.”

“I’m here, I brought beer,” you roll your eyes at her. “I  _am_  being nice.”

“Beer, good. Insults, bad,” Laura shifts the backpack a little higher on her shoulders, squints her eyes thoughtfully at you.

You scoff. “I haven’t insulted anything,”  _yet,_  you mentally add, because the night is young and, hey, you’re realistic—Laura’s friends practically invite insult, between their relentless weirdness and overall ability to be the most infuriating human beings in Austria.

“You used the word ‘quaint’,” Laura nudges you in the ribs with a pointed finger, and you glare at her. “That’s Carm-speak for ‘awful'.”

“I’m hurt and offended,” you scowl at her, then sniff, looking away—at the bright paint job, the yellow sunflowers, and the strings of fairy lights glowing around the front door frame. “I prefer the term horrendous, or perhaps visually offensive. Eye-rending, if you’re feeling dramatic.”

Your fiancee (you’ll never tire of that description) sighs at you. “Be nice,” Laura repeats. “We haven’t seen everybody in a month—”

“Best month of my life,” you scoff.

(True—for a myriad of reasons, of course.)

Laura ignores you. “—and I want to catch up, tell them all about our trip, and about new developments,” she pauses, thumbing her ring, a smile on her face, “without getting us thrown out.”

“Please, like they’d throw us out.”

“Okay, so they might not throw us out,” Laura shakes her head. “But, get a few wines in Perry, and the claws come out—she’s nice, but scary. If you make her angry, she  _will_ passive aggressively follow you from room to room, cleaning whatever you touch.”

Your face, you hope, conveys your sincere amusement at Laura’s words. “How terrifying, truly,” you hold out an arm. “Do you see that? I’m practically  _quivering_.”

Laura makes a face. “I  _will_  put you in time out.”

“What am I, five?”

“You’re at least a ten,” Laura actually has the audacity to make a finger gun at you, grinning (and god, this is who you’re marrying, where did you go  _wrong_ ). But then her face straightens up a little. “But, please, promise me you’ll at least  _attempt_ to be nice.”

You roll your eyes.

The things you do for Laura.

(You’d do anything for her.)

"Fine. Contrary to popular belief, cupcake, I am perfectly capable of being a civil guest,” you scowl at her as you say it, pointed—and she wilts a little, looking slightly chastened. “No matter how awful this will undoubtedly be, and that I’d rather be anywhere  _but_ here—like an active volcano, perhaps.”

“Save climbing Mount Doom for after our honeymoon,” Laura says, stepping closer to the door—which is engraved, because of course, with a little plaque that says ‘LaFontaine & Perry’. She presses the doorbell, then offers you smile. “Party first.”

“Pain before pleasure,” you drawl, stepping closer to her—and it’s not just to chase away the cool evening air, which you can feel even through your jacket. “I had no idea you were such a traditionalist.”

Laura rolls her eyes. “You got your fair share of pleasure already,  _cupcake_ ,” she says, throwing you a chiding, teasing look. “How do you think I convinced you to come in the first place?”

You smirk. “Well, you  _are_ awfully good at making me  _come_ ,” you reply, throwing her a sultry look. “But even so, bribery is supposed to be below you, Miss Hollis.”

"I prefer the term incentivizing,” Laura retorts, flipping some of her hair over her shoulder. “Besides, is that a complaint?”

“Not at all, just an observation,” you say, slowly running your eyes up and down her. “I think I could use a little more encouragement, some more  _incentivizing,_  if you will.”

A little blush slips through Laura’s façade, you’re pleased to note, but she shakes her head at you. “Incentive without progress is wasted resources,” she says, turning towards the door as you hear the distinct sounds of footsteps approaching. “Prove you can put in the work, Miss Karnstein, and maybe you’ll earn a bonus.”

Well, when she puts it like  _that._

Before you can retort, a shadow slips at the foot of the door, and it flies abruptly open.

“I wasn’t aware it was a costume party.”

Laura throws you a look.

“That’s a…nice look.”

Dressed in a tie-dyed lab coat, with a pair of safety glasses propped on their forehead, LaFontaine doesn’t seem to take any of what you said to heart—their face is bright, flushed, and they’re smiling a little too wide, an odd spark in their eyes.

“Hollstein! Great, you’re here! It’s about time!” they exclaim. “There’s important thing afoot, experiments taking place! We are revolutionizing alcohol consumption as we know it!”

Appearing behind LaFontaine in the hall, gently taking their shoulders, Perry smiles tightly. “LaFontaine is experimenting with some…worrying forms of alcohol ingestion,” she explains, setting a prompting hand on their shoulder. “J.P. found more dry ice, sweetie.”

“Ice, yes!” LaFontaine cackles, ever the mad scientist. They dart forward, abruptly, and steal the box of beer from your hand. Then they’re moving back down the hall, swerving past Perry. “Meet me in the kitchen!”

Perry watches them go worriedly, a frown creasing her brow.

“That was interesting…” Laura says, at length.

You’re blinking, considering your now empty hands. “Well, there goes the beer.”

Not that you intended to drink it, of course. You’re more of a wine or spirits kind of woman, and despite working in a bar, you’ll never be able to force yourself to choke down more than a fifth of a bottle. The beer was for the party. The wine, one of the bottles you'd paid exorbitant amounts to get shipped from the vineyard in Italy, is for you and Laura.

"They were very excited for your arrival,” Perry says, turning back to you both—she looks painfully sober, stern frown in place. “So they decided to experiment with 'molecular mixology’. Now, they’re attempting very concerning things with dry ice and a muffin tin.”

Laura glances at you, and you bite back the comment you want to make—you can take the scientist out of the lab, but you can’t take the mad out of the scientist.

Honestly, you don't know how a bio-major like LaFontaine became a  _photographer_ , when it seems like all the want is to blow stuff up, or defy the laws of nature (and common sense).

“Sounds like we’ve missed a hell of a party,” you say, slowly

Perry eyes you both, something like disapproval in her gaze. “Yes, well, we've been waiting for you to arrive. Danny and Kirsch arrived last, almost an hour ago. And LaFontaine’s been experimenting ever since.”

Your fiancee eyes you pointedly, blame clearly in her gaze. “Sorry, Perr. A certain someone was being stubborn, and wouldn’t leave the house.”

“You seemed rather comfortable in bed, too, sunshine,” you reply, flippant. “Don’t pin all the blame on me.”

Laura chokes.

Perry’s cheeks color, matching her hair. “Yes, well,” she coughs, disapproval fading to embarassment. “You’re here now, so please, come in! It’s good to see you both! How was your trip?”

You step inside, and Perry’s immediately grasping for your jackets—you’re 'adults’ now, and Perry’s always been twenty-six-going-on-fifty, so apparently you not allowed to just dump them on the floor anymore. Scowling, you shrug away her hands, and slip your leather jacket off yourself, tossing it over the coat rack.

“It was great, amazing!” Laura answers, bright, taking off her scarf and handing that to Perry too. “You should have seen it, we—”

You tune Laura and Perry out, and follow the two women deeper into the house.

It’s very homely, and there’s not a single thing out of place. It’s very obvious, however, that the two occupants have very different personalities—you glance between all the biology-themed knick-knacks, the immaculately cared-for plants, and the perfectly framed and spaced photographs, eyebrow raised.

There's music slipping from deeper inside, growing louder as you follow Perry and Laura into the living room. It's at the rear of the house, with a sliding door open to a patio.

"Little nerd! Carmsexy!"

Kirsch flies off the couch the moment you step inside, grinning brightly, even as you glare at the nickname. His beer bottle sloshes violently, and you  _swear_ Perry almost has a stroke watching it, before it settles. 

"What have I told you about that name,  _Wilson."_

Kirsch winces, then wilts, like a chastized puppy. 

"Hey, Kirsch!" Laura catches him in a hug, and she's practically dwarfed by him. 

He brightens in an instant, scooping your fiancee up in a hug and dancing her around in circles, his arms around her waist. "Bro, I've missed you!" he exclaims, and you step warily out of their spin radius when he almost clocks you with Laura's legs. "You're back! D-Bear said you were back!"

Danny appears at his shoulder, roughly jostling his side. "I told you to stop calling me that."

"Sorry, D-Bea— _Danny_ ," he sets Laura down, rubbing at the spot she hit.

Laura pushes past Kirsch, then, throwing her arms around the Ginger Giant. "Danny, it's good to see you!"

It's a repeat performance, minus the spinning. But your eyes watch Danny a little closer than Kirsch, watching the way she brightens at Laura's voice, and hugs her a fraction tighter than necessary. You know they know each other from  _before_ , that they've shared interviews and coffee, but there's still no explanation for why Laura likes her so much.

You're still not entirely sure how you feel about Danny (and Kirsch) infiltrating your social lives, except that it's mostly negative—though that's not unusual, for the group you refer to as the 'Dimwit Squad' or 'Moron Circus' at regular intervals.

"Can I take that to the kitchen?" Perry asks, gesturing to your wine bottle.

"And risk Dr. Frankenstein deciding to 'experiment' on it?" you retort, tucking the bottle closer to yourself. "No, thanks. I'd like to keep it intact, if possible. And ingestible. I suspect I'll need it if I have to deal with this all night."

Perry doesn't take your words to heart, or she doesn't appear to.

Living with and (although they won't outright say so) potentially dating LaFontaine, you suspect, has done wonders to accustom her to the particular brand of chaos that surround them. Nobody who's spent more than ten minutes with LaFontaine can deny that they are their own brand of  _unique_.

"How was your trip, little hottie?" Kirsch asks, eyes bright. "Did you get me anything?"

"Oh, oh, presents!" Laura suddenly remembers the backpack she's wearing, struggling to rip it off her shoulders. She holds it up—and you roll your eyes, again, at the Doctor Who themed backpack (she'd spotted it from across the street, while you were in the UK, and almost gotten herself mowed down by a bus in her rush to buy it). "I come bearing gifts!"

Everybody's eyes light up, like Christmas has come early. 

"Here, Perry!" Laura digs through the backpack, pulling out a small, wrapped gift. "This is for you, fresh from Rome!"

She takes the package with a smile, delicately unwrapping it. "Oh, my," she exclaimed, face brightening at the sight of a variety of herb and spice infused oils, "they're wonderful, Laura. Thank you. I know just what to cook with these." 

"And I look forward to trying it!" Laura beams. "Now, let's see, for Kirsch I have—"

Like a pint-sized Santa Claus, Laura goes around handing out presents to everybody: a specially printed, hand-crafted stein for Kirsch; for Danny, a hand-carved statue of Athena. She even bounces off into the kitchen, to present LaFontaine and J.P. with gifts—she comes back white-faced and eyes wide, and you  _really_ don't want to know what that's about.

Laura, ever thoughtful, had bought something for practically everyone she knew, from the usual crew, to Mattie, to your neighbors. She's almost offensively caring. You'd been less than amused when she pulled you into every store, souvineer shop and stall, scouring for gifts for the entire population of Styria.

LaFontaine follows Laura back in, then, goggles slipped over their eyes. "Look alive, everybody! The alcohol train has arrived!"

Following dutifully behind, J.P. (who looks much steadier on his feet, and also somewhat remorseful—though he kind of always looks like that) carries a tray full of smoking glasses. Although, they're not actually glasses, you notice as he gets closer. They're beakers, filled with bright red liquid.

"Are you sure that's safe?" Danny asks, staring at the tray.

LaFontaine grins. "Totally," they chirp, then pause. "Unless you're allergic to red dye."

"Please, she's practically a sentient Twizzler," you say, rolling your eyes. "Although, for the record, that looks radioactive."

They seize one of the beakers, taking a deep gulp. "Yeah, but it tastes awesome."

"Mm, cherry," Kirsch hums, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "You can definitely taste the awesome, bro."

LaFontaine beams. " _Bro."_

Kirsch looks back at them, eyes wide, delighted— _"bro,"_  he whispers—and oh, god  _help you_ , they're having a moment.

"I definitely should have gone for the volcano," you grumble, turning your eyes to the ceiling, willing some ancient god to strike you down, to tear away from this new horror. "I am in  _hell_."

Laura, backpack forgotten in favor of curiosity, takes a beaker from J.P. "Whoa!" she squeaks after taking a sip, smoke slipping from her mouth like a dragon's breath. "What's in this!"

LaFontaine leans forward, voice low. "Magic. Science. Dr. Pepper. A little dry ice. A  _lot_  of vodka."

Your mind flashes back to the last time Laura had anything with vodka in it. Waking up in the middle of the night to hold your girlfriend's hair back isn't one of your fondest memories, and the ensuing, deadly hangover even less so.

"Go easy, sunshine," you warn her, taking the beaker from her fingertips and setting it on the coffee table, next to an assortment of half-demolished snacks and empty red cups. "Remember Switzerland?"

The sheer mention of the ill-fated evening is enough to make Laura pale. "Don't remind me," she looks positively nauseated by the thought. "I can still taste the hot sauce. And, just so you know, it burned  _just as much_  going back up."

You miss when she steps into the room, but Betty appears from somewhere. "Now this is a story I have to hear," Betty crows, the half-faded scar on the side of her face (sliced open from shrapnel in the blast) pulling with her grin. "Did you finally loosen up on holiday, Hollis?"

"Oh, she  _more_  than loosened up," you smirk, ignoring Laura's panicked look. "Miss Hollis got so trashed, I had to carry her out of the hotel so we wouldn't miss our flight."

Betty cackles. "That's the spirit, Laura. If I knew all it would take to get you shitfaced was a change in scenery, I would have dragged you out of Austria way sooner."

"I didn't get s-shitfaced," Laura only stumbles over the curse a little.

"Sorry, cutie, but you were a goner. I had to stop the taxi three times for you to throw up," you take great pleasure in the color her face is taking on, almost as red as the drink she picks back up, violently chugging. "And that was between singing Taylor Swift songs, and asking the driver whether he thought bras were 'oppressive and harmful to the female body', while trying to take yours off."

Danny splutters into her drink.

"That is—this isn't— _inappropriate!"_ Laura hisses, mortified, pinning you with a glare. "I did no such thing, and even if I did, I remember someone saying 'what happens in Europe, stays in Europe'."

"We're still in Europe, sweetie," you tell her, unrepentant. "I just meant I wasn't going to tell your Dad. Telling your friends is free game."

Laura mashes a hand to her face. "I  _hate_ you."

"That's not what you told me last night."

"Hey, wait, hold the phone—" LaFontaine, drunk as they are, is ever-observant. They point a finger towards Laura, to the hand pressed to her face. More specifically, they're pointing to the very prominent ring. "—is that what I think it is?"

Laura peeks out between her fingers, takes in the expressions of shock, surprise and excitement.

"Um, surprise?" she squeaks, eyes darting rapidly around the room. "Carmilla and I are getting married?"

"About time!" LaFontaine shouts, raising a beaker and grinning with red-dyed teeth. "Jeep, you owe me twenty bucks!"

Kirsch is practically  _sobbing_ with joy. "Bros! You did it!"

Perry's hand presses to her mouth, hiding her smile. "Oh, my."

"Get it, Hollis!" Betty screeches.

"Congratulations," J.P. smiles, fishing money out of his wallet and handing it to LaFontaine.

"Good to see someone," Danny throws a pointed glance at you, which, wow, rude, "finally womaned up."

Laura's swallowed by a cluster of chaos, embarrasment forgotten, as her friends surge forward to excitedly question her.

Perry, surprisingly, asks how you'd proposed, an almost manic look in her eye.

(It won't be long, you think, until there's another wedding chasing yours.)

(At least, if Perry and LaFontaine will ever admit they're  _together_.)

Your eyes flicker between them, the half-dozen idiots who have somehow dragged themselves into your life, riding in on Laura's coattails. And you want to hate them, dislike them, but they're like a  _fungus_. They've attached themselves to you, grown in the quiet, vulnerable places; in game nights, drop-in lunches and hospital visits. 

Three years ago, before  _Laura_ , you'd never imagined this could be your life.

You'd been a loner, content to work nights and sleep away your days. You'd lived in a crappy little apartment, in a run-down area. You'd had no friends beyond those you'd made at work, and those had been acquaintences more than anything. You'd been a loner by choice, but also very much alone.

Now, though, things are different. 

These are Laura's friends, sure, but—you look at their wide, smiling faces, as Betty screams out a toast that makes your ears ring—against all odds, they're  _your_ friends too.

"Something wrong?"

Your eyes slip to the side, as Laura's arm winds around yours.

"No," you reply, smiling softly—it says all the things, you hope, that you can't voice. "Just happy."

Laura's smile is beautiful. "I'm glad."

"Your friends are idiots," you say, as Kirsch and LaFontaine chug back-to-back shots of the dubious drinks, and Perry shouts something about not spilling it on the very white, pristine carpet. 

She laughs. "Totally. But they're  _our_ friends."

You shake your head—she always knows what to say, to hit a little too close to home. "I love you," you tell her, instead. "And I can't wait to marry you."

"I can't wait to marry you, either," she beams, presses her lips softly, fleetingly, to your own. "Y'know, all the bad things aside, I think this has been the best year of my life."

The words send a surge of warmth through you, and you can't help but agree. "It's been a hell of a year, sweetheart."

"Understatement," Laura laughs, eyes bright.

"Save it for the honeymoon, losers. Let me get a look at that rock, Hollis," Betty barrels towards you both, interrupting the moment, and drags Laura away by the hand, into a ring of wide-eyed gingers.

Laura can't resist the pull, and you let her go, eyes shining with mirth.

Idiots, all of them, you think.

But still, you reflect on Laura's words from a few days earlier, you wouldn't change anything that's happened for the world, because it's led you to this.

"Congratulations, really. I'm happy for you both," Danny says, and you don't know how somebody so tall, with such fluorescent hair, manages to be so  _quiet—_ you totally don't jump. "Who would have thought, after everything, that we'd be here like this?"

You'll deny it to the grave, but all of the venom and dislike you normally carry for Lawrence drains out of your body in that instant, at her words. You haven't forgotten about what she did, in that street, in the ruins of Laura's office building. And though you've settled into something largely antagonistic with her, you'll never forget what she did.

"Thank you," the words are low, a thanks you've never given her, for that day so many months ago. "I don't think I ever said that."

Her eyes find yours, eyebrows high. "You're being nice to me?"

"Don't get used to it," you scowl, looking away, feeling suddenly exposed beneath Danny's gaze. "I just—Laura is the best thing that's ever been mine, she makes the entire world shine, and if I had lost her, I don't think I'd ever have been able to pull myself back together. So...thanks."

Danny's arms wrap around you suddenly, and she's half crouching to hug you with her giant frame. It's awkward, exceptionally so. And you're both tense, frozen. You don't even hug back, in fact, you may or may not jab her ribs with the wine bottle.

"This is weird, isn't it?" Danny mumbles after a moment. "I'm just gonna, y'know, let go."

You hiss. "Please do."

She pulls back, and studiously avoids looking at you. After a moment of awkward silence, she looks back to you, shaking her head. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry about everything that happened. I'm glad Laura made it out, for both of you," she tugs awkwardly on her hair, flipping it over her shoulder. "But I'm glad we're doing this."

"Going soft on me, Clifford?"

Danny scoffs. "Watch it, Wednesday."

You smirk. "What're you gonna go, Officer Redvine, write me a ticket?"

"You're lucky I'm off duty, Karnstein," Danny rolls her eyes. "I think your fiancee might be mad if I booked the love of her life a one-way trip downtown."

"Wow, just how many bad cop movies have you watched?"

"Shut it, Ebony."

You cackle. "That's weak, Lawrence, even for you."


End file.
